The man in the corner
booth had a look about him. He was a familiar face, despite the
haunted look in his brown eyes and the week's worth of scruff on
his cheeks. His suit was rumpled and it was entirely possible he'd
been wearing that for a week, too. He lifted the tumbler of amber
liquid to his lips, taking far too big a gulp, but swallowing without
even a wince, like the choking sting of the cheap alcohol went
entirely unnoticed. It was a familiar sight; a lot of people were
walking around hollow and traumatized.

It had been a week
since the tragedy; a week and most people still weren't talking.
Some were screaming, some were crying…a good bit were drinking, but
most weren't capable of talking. Everybody knew someone who'd
been lost—either to the metal men or the strange flying creatures.
Some even had bodies to burry.

The events of that day
would haunt everyone, all over the world, but London had taken the
brunt of it. The flying pepper pots hadn't gotten too far beyond
the city before it ended in the blink of an eye; all the creatures
vanishing in a blur as they were pulled towards Canary Warf and then
zipped off to only God knew where.

The memorial services
had already begun, lists of the dead continually being updated and
revised. The city was just…numb. It had all that it could take,
and then some.

He could have come from
a service, for as put-together as he looked. The man at the bar
looked impeccable in his well-cut navy blue suit. His hair was crisp
and perfect, face freshly shaven. The man in the corner booth
supposed the fellow watching him had the right idea—wash your face
and get on with it. There was no sense in wallowing, like this. In
not sleeping, in not eating. In trying to find a comfort that would
never come inside this bottle. Or the last one. Or the one before
that.

Home was a lonely,
unbearable place. He still had business in London, or he'd have
been off already. But he couldn't stay in his home; too many
memories there. He also couldn't bare to walk the streets any
longer, looking at the stunned, tortured faces of the other
survivors. He never had anything in common with the locals. Usually
he was a catalyst, part of the solution. This time, he was certainly
part of the problem, but he had lost as well.

He had lost. He was
lost.

This place was dark—it
was a hole in the wall really—with poor lighting and one tiny
window at the front near the door. It was the perfect place to hide
for a bit. She was alive. He was far luckier than these others had
been. She was alive and safe.

Why did he feel as
empty as the man at the bar looked?

Picking up another
now-full tumbler, the man in the well-tailored suit approached,
probably taking the question in the other bloke's eyes as an
invitation to share misery. "Buy you another bottle?" the young
man asked in a non-local accent.

The booth's current
resident shrugged and gestured for the new arrival to sit down.
"Having someone to drink it with will be different." He held up
the glass, twisting it in his hand, watching the light reflect
through the liquid. "Variety, being the spice of… something or
other." He frowned.

Taking a sip of his own
drink, the newcomer nodded in understanding. "And it's better
than going home to an empty flat."

Perhaps they could
drink themselves under the table. Perhaps they could drink
themselves to death. "I turn to say something to her," the man
in the brown suit conceded, "and then I remember she's gone."

His table partner
nodded. "We were supposed to visit her parents this weekend."

They sat in
companionable silence, each knowing that the other understood him
completely, at least in this moment. Draining glasses again, drinks
were poured, and the trek toward oblivion marched on.

One of them gestured
for the bar tender to bring another bottle. Even if it was the
cheapest stuff on the shelf, the bill was still going to be weighty.
Finally one of them rubbed his week's worth of growth, scratching
his cheek. It was evident that he was totally unaccustomed to being
so scraggly. "I'm closing up her home. Her mother's home. I
can't seem to bring myself to throw anything away." Tapping his
finger on the rim of the glass, he concentrated on his nails for a
moment. "Her mother was a cow, and I've kept her hair dryer."
A lonely smile twistead on one side of his face. "Cow,
bat…possibly an emu. If it wouldn't be insulting to the emu.
I'll just keep it all. Maybe I'll be able to go through
it…objectively. Some day."

Not bloody likely,
though. He still had all of a certain young man's things in a box
in the bottom of his cupboard. Metal men were evil no matter what
dimension they were from.

The other man nodded
again, and there was a rush of gratitude from the booth's original
occupant. He wouldn't be able to bear an inappropriate attempt to
make light of the situation any more than he'd be able to bear
consolation, no matter how heart-felt.

It was easier to talk
to a stranger. There'd been clinics and counselors set up all
around town, but it wasn't either one's style. They were both
men with things to hide. "You were there, weren't you?" the
younger man asked, taking a sudden long swill from the glass before
continuing. "At Torchwood."

The older of the two
shifted uncomfortably. "How would you know?"

Adjusting the cuff of
his navy suit, the other shrugged. "I thought I saw you in a stair
well. It doesn't mean anything. Not too many of us left, now.
No wonder they're closing it down. I opted to go to Cardiff. Are
you going anywhere else?"

A sarcastic chuckle and
the clink of the bottle against the glass were the only things that
filled the space between them for a moment. "Anywhere but here.
This city, this country…this planet. Even this universe isn't
far enough away." He sat back in the booth, resting his head
against the fake leather cushion. "I don't know if I'd be
running towards or from."

"From life?
Apparently it catches up with you anyway."

The man in the rumpled
suit winced as he thought about that, the harsh taste seeming to
affect him for the first time. "There's so much I didn't say."

Staring into his own
drink, the younger of the two contemplated this. "No amount of
time is enough time. The only acceptable answer is…forever.
There's no such thing as forever, though…is there?"

The man scratched his
stubble again. "I wish there was. It's a lie. It's all a
lie." His voice caught in his throat. "But it's a lie worth
believing. Worth chasing. And fighting for, and dying for."

"I was ready to do
that." The young man's eyes met his. "To take it all from
her, to somehow trade my life for hers. I pleaded to God, as if there
was someone to hear me. Still do. God. I should let her go.
Holding on to her—I know what people would probably think."

Closing his eyes,
letting the image of her rest behind his eyelids, the man in the
rumpled suit continued. "This…that doesn't come along once in
a lifetime, even. I know. When it's there, you have to hold on to
it for dear life. Never let it go. Even if there's the smallest
glimmer of hope." With that, some of the deadness left his eyes,
as if he were somehow encouraging himself. "Blow on it, make it
grow… make it turn into something great. Rassilon. I wasted so
much time. You think it will go on forever, but it ends so terribly
abruptly, and there's so much you haven't said. You just…you're
left staring at a wall, wishing…for something that can't be.
I've…done everything. Things you couldn't—the blood on my
hands—but I couldn't save my people and I couldn't save her.
Useless, I am. There's got to be something though. I just need to
find something…"

More silence. They both
stared at half-empty glasses, each contemplating the impossible.

The smell of cigar
smoke drifted their way from a round table near the door. It was a
thick smell and slightly sweet. It was the smell of loneliness and
remorse. "Grateful for the time we had, and all that," the man in
the navy suit muttered. "No. That's not right at all. It isn't
over until…it's over. Till hope runs out."

His companion didn't
entirely understand him—but his mind was busy working out its own
issues and didn't have time to process his statement. "As much
death as I've seen…you'd think…I could just let go. The
war—well that was a war too. She made it better, after the war.
It was worth living again. Life, that is. Worth it, if she'd
smile."

"Too much death,"
the younger agreed, seeming to be conversing strictly with his
tumbler. "I've seen it. She—she made me forget it. My job."

The older man's eyes
focused on him for a moment. "You're a cleaner, aren't you?"
The suit, the way he was able to scrub his face and go on. "Dispose
of whoever and whatever they need buried."

A single nod was his
reply. "Fantastic use of my education. My mother would be proud.
Getting calls to dispose of bodies in the middle of the night through
creative means. Clearin' away the evidence of the whole separate
world going on around them—the one that is invisible…because of
me. I'm just too damned good at my job." He finished off his
glass. "I was happier pushing paper. She said that this job…would
make me cold if I let it."

"It does. But she
kept the darkness at bay," the rumpled man nodded with
understanding. "Keeps. Haveta keep… I don't know. Living
what she taught you—doing what she tells—told you to do. Haveta
keep living, in my case. Once I told her to forget me, have a
fantastic life. Rassilon," he hissed out that unfamiliar word
again. "But she made it—everyone leaves eventually. They all
go. Why can't I just…" He slammed the glass down, resolve
suddenly filling the emptiness in his eyes. "I have to say
goodbye. At least that much. I owe her that much. To see her one
last time…" a shiver ran through him.

"You have to do what
you can," the other man confirmed. "Even if it's… too little
too late, I suppose. Haveta…keep fighting. She's worth fighting
for."

There was a quiet,
gestureless agreement on this. "Anything that's left. NO matter
how small. Gotta take it. Cus it's all that's left." Pushing
the bottle towards the young man, the booth's original occupant
rose, tossing a handful of bills onto the table. "Finish it.
I…have work to do." He smiled, even though it never reached his
eyes, it was still sincere. "One last fight for her. One last
stand."

The man in the navy
suit poured himself a final drink, the effects of the alcohol so much
more apparent upon him than on his companion. "Then back to work.
Back to…cleaning. To…what's left. What's left has to be
enough." The last sounded as if it were said more to convince
himself of this than anything else. "It has to be—it's…all
there is."

With an emotionless nod
of encouragement, the man in the worn brown suit slid his hands into
the pockets of his greatcoat and silently headed toward the door.
Anything that he could do was better than nothing. Nothing
was…unacceptable. He wouldn't stand for it.

Opening the heavy metal
door which was painted the same morose green as the walls, he was
blinded momentarily by the white afternoon light and it appeared to
swallow him as he stepped out, joining the aching throng of humanity
bustling about on the streets—each one lost in his own private
hell.

THE END

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